This is for all the spouses, who are quietly, (or not so quietly),
waiting in the side wings, and, after all this inspiring discussion
about super blasters, may be in need for some entertainment.
Shes in the mood again, writing silly essays , my hubby cried this
morning, wearing a serious expression.
Could the full moon be the cause of this condition? Maybe.....
Could it be the onset of menopause? Nah, not yet.......
Maybe its the Baileys Irish Cream? No, that happened yesterday!
The giggles started last night when I was e-mailing Andre Rosseau; and I
just had to inform him that an elephant had just do doed into the
Survivors water well. This kind of information is simply too important
to be withheld from the public, and so is this essay.
If you listers out there like to hear about the continuing odyssey and
adventures of the rebuilding of the Firefly read on.
So here goes:
Christmas with Spitty
Im absolutely giddy with joy. The holidays are finally over and I have
survived. I now have time to play. The wire wheels, after bead blasting
and a final sanding, are ready to be primered and painted. The only
casualty are my finger nails, which are non-existent. This is not a
happy site for a guitarist who needs nails for a decent appergio.
Im sure the experts among us have been through various stages of
restoration, but for me this is the first time Im involved with this
kind of work, and my family is determined to make me a believer out of
me. Therefore I like to share my joy with you. The truth is, I have
fallen in love with my little car and, if I can, I like to spend every
minute in the garage breathing life back into the little lady.
Over the holidays, when people usually throw themselves into the craze
of decorating and cooking, this woman could not get inspired, would not
even make an attempt of putting up a Christmas tree. Instead of dreams
of sugar plums I had visions of carburetors, crankshafts, transmission
seals, head gaskets in my head.........need I say more?
I tried to get into the Christmas spirit, I honestly did try. I made a
date with my husband to meet in the city to get the kids presents, buy
some wine, the works. ........Spitty didnt want me to leave, the car
keys were nowhere to be found. My better half waited in vain. He finally
came home to find me sitting by the door and my keys in his car, behind
the seat.
On Christmas eve my husband, was in the garage working his magic on the
Firefly. I was busy in the kitchen. Come and look at these break
lines , a call from outside and a good excuse for me to escape house
wifely duties. I was eager to look at the new developments under the
car, so I forgot the cranberry sauce simmering on the stove. Just as Im
under the vehicle inspecting the lines and a broken exhaust manifold,
all fire alarms go off in the house. Panic stricken I scrambled of the
garage floor hitting my head on the rocker panel. Both of us were racing
into the basement where thick smoke engulfed us. On top of the landing
my old Dachshund , eyes bulging in terror, awaited her rescue. The mad
dash to the windows and doors began, the frigid winter air felt good in
our lungs. With a brave attempt of heroism we managed to extract the pot
from the stove. The cranberries now resembled the smoking debris of lava
rock, Mount Helen in miniature scale.
Im happy to report that the inspection of the break lines revealed two
very disintegrated sections. We also discovered a hole in the frame that
needs repairs. Yes, one can never be too careful about those things
...........Accidents happen.......
Clearly, the Christmas spirit needed to be restored in the Haasper
household. After a thorough clean up it was time to bake. Isnt this
what moms are suppose to do for the holidays. I did my duty, and the
only mishap was the spilled box of baking powder. However, I was tempted
to cut little Spitfires out of the dough but decided against it. One has
to show maturity once in a while.
I also gathered all my patience and baked a lemon chiffon cake,
grandmas recipe. The white stuff plus the lemon was already in the food
processor when I added the three tablespoons of salt. I managed to
rescue the thing, nobody noticed.
On Christmas eve the opening of the presents revealed a sweatshirt for
Wilf and, Hallelujah, a tool bag with British tools, plus a flashlight,
from my loving son and daughter in law. How thoughtful is this? When I
break down next summer, during an evening cruise in the Ottawa valley, I
will be able to get my doctors bag out, repair, lets say a starter
motor, by myself and have a colour- coordinated flash light on board to
illuminate the scene.
My sweetheart Wilf actually created a shifter knob for me on the lathe,
out of some rare African wood, sporting the engraving of a T .The
plastic knob simply wouldnt do.
The best part of Christmas took place on Christmas day. After the kids
left we had the time to play with the Firefly. To the sounds of Jesse
Cook, Oscar and Ottmar (hey, Jesse, do you know how difficult it is to
rumba under a spitfire?) in peaceful tranquility we dismantled the last
mechanical parts, inspected, cleaned many little component, honed the
cylinders, and welded a little here and there. I was even allowed to
sand and paint a few small parts ( got the colours mixed up only
once)and polish a little chrome, and, as a treat, finished of the last
piece of slightly salty lemon cake, served on the workbench in elegant
dishes. A contented sigh escaped my lips as my fingers lovingly caressed
the beautiful lines of my beloved Spitfire. Ahhhhhh young love, my
childhood dream come true, my youth revisited.
Update: This weekend my son and his soon to be bride will come home for
a visit again. Its Kevin s birthday. He requested a Black Forest Cake.
I truly fear for the worst.....
Warning: If I ever get that TR 3, subscribe to Pizza-Pizza, youll never
see me in the kitchen again!
Keep on spitting
Liv
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